Friends
by MissAnomaly
Summary: Written for LaPaige’s 101 Prompt Challenge. Constructive criticism are very much loved. Review? Please? First Camp Rock fic.


_Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. Original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended._

_A/N Before you all start to cursing at me wondering what the *profane* is this newbie doing here on your turf let me just say I've been in this Camp Rock fic reading craz for a while but never ventured into writing cause there are just so many good ones here, but then I stumbled across LaPaige's (her stuff is awesome btw) 101 Prompt Chalenge and I figured, what the heck, let's give this a whack._

_Anyway.. Comments are greatly appreciated. Constructive criticism are also very much loved. So.. Review? Please? Bear in mind this is my first Camp Rock fic, so go easy k?!_

_Okay, so this is number 1 on the 101 prompts and it's Shaitlyn. I'll let the story do the rest of the talking so here we go!_

**Friends.**

_Her hands entwined with his brown locks, pulling him closer to him under the tangled bed sheets, both taking deep, uneven breaths._

_Caitlyn, not Mitchie – not his dear, sweet, effortlessly Mitchie – loud, quirky, unafraid and innovative Caitlyn, writhed underneath him in pleasure, face contorting into a knot of ecstasy as he drove into her._

_Thoughts of Mitchie are briefly forgotten in that moment._

_Mitchie._

_Mitchie who liked soft, slow lovemaking. Mitchie who was shy, gentle, unoffensive._

_Caitlyn however was heat, not the soothing warmth of Mitchie, but red hot fire heat. Fire that burned wildly with desire, dripping with passion._

_Her hair splayed out on the pillow in a tangle of sweaty mess, a tangle of deep chestnut locks. Her lips parted in all of their chapped, bruised glory as she continues to moan his name._

Lust. Comfort. Release. Whatever it was, it was never supposed to have happened.

It was one time. No biggie.

They were friends. Just friends. Friends who turned to each other for comfort.

The first time it happened it was after his first official big fight with his wife.

Connect 3 was huge, and after the collaboration with them after Camp Rock, Mitchie was an instant hit in Tinseltown. Naturally arguments were what happened when a young married duo consisted of two major bona fida stars.

Egos collided, tempers flared and personalities clashed.

It was stupid really; Shane just did not like the new bad girl image her producer was selling to her but that was the direction her new album was headed and she argued that it wasn't her fault that Tommy, her producer was doing what he thought was best for her. After all, good girl images only held up for that long. And she was venturing into the punk rock genre. It was the right thing to do she had said.

"Aren't you sick of this girl next door face that I've to put on anyway?" she asked.

He groaned in frustration, running his hand through his hair, almost ripping it out.

Shane didn't get it why she didn't get it. She didn't need to be anything. She didn't need an angle to sell to her audience, she didn't need an image to sport, she didn't need all that. Didn't she learn anything from all those years ago at Camp Rock? Pretending to be someone she wasn't? All she had to do was be herself.

He was so angry he walked out of their God-only-know's how many rooms LA mansion.

And straight into a hotel bar.

Where he found her seated there on the high stool, barking for the bartender to 'keep 'em coming' as she downed the first of the many many glasses of clear liquid.

Caitlyn's record label was based in New York, fast, lively, vivacious New York, just like her and she was in town trying to make a deal with a bigger record label to distribute her productions worldwide. She had also happened to have just broken up with her umpteenth boyfriend.

The cheating bastard, Caitlyn had said, he had this whole idea that it was alright to just fuck anyone, anytime, anywhere, she said and he chuckled sitting down next to her, it was easy to be comfortable with her, sharing her drinks that she had made sure kept coming as well as his problems.

"That bitch," she joked after he was done venting.

And he appreciated that she did that even when Mitchie was her best friend.

But then again, they'd both had quiet a lot of the Malibu Vodka the bartender kept pouring into their glasses.

I mean really, he had asked, why can't she be more like you, you know, unafraid to be who you are.

Probably because she's afraid she'd end up in her twenties and can't find a boyfriend who'd stick she replied, without hesitation.

He laughed at that. At her sincerity. At her truth telling ways. Because that's what it was. The truth. No guy could keep up with her because she was so full of life. So chirpy. So animate. So.. Caitlyn.

And she wasn't afraid to show it.

And she could not have been more different from Mitchie. So he leaned in towards her. Not knowing what he was doing. Not caring.

Before he knew it he was pressing her up against her room door, before they both stepped into her room and proceeded to making mad passionate love all over.

He awoke with note scribbled on a hotel notepad - handwriting wonky because she was balancing her shoes in one hand, clutching her dress and leather jacket to her chest in the other and holding the phone to her ear with her shoulder - next to his snoozing head.

_Hey,_

_So it was great catching up._

_But we're just friends, so let's not catch up too much, too soon you know? _

_I'll see you around. Or if you don't want to, then I'll write you sometime._

_Your friend, _

_Cait._

When he reached home, Mitchie apologized profusely, hysterical and said she'd fired Tommy and even already asked Caitlyn to be her producer. He winced internally at the name of their friend. He figured that was what her note meant. Caitlyn was probably so ridden with guilt when she woke up, head pounding next to her best friend's naked husband and felt worse when she checked her phone. That was probably what

'_..if you don't want me to..' _meant.

He didn't tell Mitchie not to fire Tommy. Or not to work with her best friend for her next album. Because he wanted her to be her. He wanted her to be around people who would let her be her. Butt most of all, he didn't want to feel guilty about taking away a career making break from Caitlyn. He couldn't bring himself to hurt her like that. She was his friend, their friend no matter what. Plus if Caitlyn was the one to produce Mitchie's next album, she'd have no trouble getting a major sister label to distribute her productions worldwide. He didn't want to screw her over in more than that one way he did. He couldn't do that to her. He couldn't bring himself to hurt her like that. She was his friend, their friend, no matter what.

And he knew that she would never ruin what he had with Mitchie. He knew he wouldn't. He couldn't.

And so things were okay. They were friends. Everything was just okay. For a while.

It was a Camp Rock 'o8 reunion party.

And as if it wasn't a cause for celebration enough, Mitchie's album was a hit going platinum within the first week of sales and Caitlyn's record label shot to the top of the ranks, becoming a major player with all the other big boys because of it.

They had to celebrate, and they did just that. In Malibu.

Everyone had flown in for the big party Tess had taken to holding at a beachside hotel that she practically entirely booked for that one occasion.

But after the initial few hours of crazed partying, Caitlyn retired to her room early. She had danced shamelessly with everyone and drank like a fish. But she didn't want anything to happen. Not with the familiar scents surrounding them. Not with Mitchie, who had grown a lot more confident with herself, not paying attention to her husband and best friend, basking in the glory of her new album and attention that it came with.

But then moments after she fled the party back to her room, Shane knocked, or maybe "banged" was a more appropriate word, on her door in frustration. Of course, it took a while for her to reach the door. But when she did, the door creaked open, chain stopping it abruptly.

"My room's fine, thanks!" Caitlyn's unmistakable bubbly voice sounded behind the slightly opened door.

"You know who this is," he mumbled through his clenched teeth leaning his head on her door.

"Damn right, I do," he heard her mumble right back.

But, still, he didn't hear the recently familiar creak of her hotel room door, nor did he see Caitlyn in all of her glory, his vision was completely brown, completely wooden, and completely a door. Still.

His anger rose quickly without warning, and he almost turned to leave. Almost.

But then violent flashes blinked in front of him - Caitlyn softly murmuring his name repeatedly, voice rising in volume, short painted black fingernails digging into the his back leaving crescent marks as she went, and finally Shane groaning with pleasure into her shoulder.

His palms pounded greatly on the wooden door. "Cait, please," he pleaded.

He was pleading. He, the great Shane Gray, one third of the bona fida rock band, Connect 3, was pleading. So desperate, so drunk and starved for the feel of her skin, the rush of her touch, the taste of her companionship that he was pleading.

He needed her.

The door softly closed and he heard the tinkling of the metal chain clinking against itself, and then a ping as the chain hit the wooden door frame.

The moment the door came open, he took her face into his guitar calloused hands and literally crashed into her. She stumbled backwards, struggling to keep her footing.

But she followed his lead and opened her mouth slightly, granting his tongue entrance. His hands drifted up and down her lithe body, finally both resting on the small of her back after discarding her blue striped flannel pajama top.

He guided her to the bed, as her fingers deftly undid his buttons and belt, taking each step carefully. He was wearing black-soled shoes, while she was barefoot.

He winced silently, knowing he couldn't bear to hurt her. In any way. Ever.

She slowly eased on to the bed, in nothing but her undergarments sitting up, never breaking the lip lock.

Shane rested his forehead gently against hers after breaking away; their ragged breathes the only thing audible

"Your wife's still downstairs, you know," she said, breathlessly.

His eyelids shut tightly together. "Don't bring her into this..." he warned before deftly covering her lips with his again, drowning her words with his mouth, because they were friends. Only friends. He loved his wife. And she loved his wife too. And they were friends.

Just friends.

_A/N So.. Loved it? Hated it? Liked it? Didn't? _

_Press that review button and let me know what you think.. You know you want to.. *wink._


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